


gently in the cold dark

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, F/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 20:58:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20712437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: The situation is dire enough to justify swearing.





	gently in the cold dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jdphoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/gifts).

> Everyone please join me in wishing the HAPPIEST OF BIRTHDAYS to JD! This fic is not at all the gift she deserves, but it's the only one the muse was willing to finish, so what can you do? Happy Birthday, hon! I hope you enjoy and that your day is SPECTACULAR! <3 <3 <3
> 
> And I hope the rest of you go and leave her lots and lots of comments, because those are the best present of all.

The first thing Jemma says when Ward decides they’re finally far enough away from the base in which they’ve been held captive for four days to stop is, “Thank you.”

The _second_ thing she says is, “It’s the full moon.”

“I know,” Ward says, grimacing.

“Not that I’m not grateful to be rescued,” she adds, feeling quite horrible about the necessity of this conversation, “it’s only—well—”

“It’s only that we’re stranded in the middle of a forest and I’m gonna be the most dangerous thing in it in twenty-eight minutes,” he supplies heavily. “Yeah. I know, Simmons.”

The resignation in his voice seems to lodge itself in her chest, much like a splinter underneath a fingernail. It’s very unpleasant.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

Ward shakes his head. “_I’m_ sorry. If I’d gotten us out of there faster—”

“I’m the one they wanted in the first place,” she interrupts, unable to bear the look darkening his (usually unbearably attractive) face. “If I weren’t so brilliant and useful, we wouldn’t have needed rescuing at all.”

She’s hoping to make him smile—she’s noticed before that her occasional moments of (entirely justified, by the by) arrogance tend to amuse him—but he only shakes his head again.

“And if _I_ wasn’t a werewolf,” he says, “you wouldn’t need rescuing from _me_.”

Unfortunately, Jemma can’t truly counter that. She _would_ be safer if he weren’t a werewolf. That’s just a fact.

“Maybe I won’t,” she suggests instead. “We’ve been working and living together as a team for months. It might be enough—”

“Or it might not,” he snaps, and then takes a breath. “Simmons—I can’t—fuck.”

He turns away from her, running both hands through his hair, and likely misses the way she stares. Which is just as well, as it’s ridiculous of her. It’s only that she’s never heard him swear before. Even when he fell under that berserker spell a few weeks ago: for all of his verbal cruelty, his language remained very clean.

Of course, their situation _is_ dire enough to justify it.

They’re alone in the middle of an unfamiliar forest, with no idea where their team might be and no way to contact them. Jemma has a broken ankle, upon which she will not be walking until she gets some proper healing—which naturally will not be possible until they meet up with the team again and she can be brought to a SHIELD trauma center. Ward is bleeding from a worryingly large gash in his side, which will fortunately heal when he turns with the moon’s rise but _unfortunately_ means that even if he had any hope of getting a decent distance from her before turning, there will be a convenient blood trail for his wolf to track right back to her.

And what his wolf will do when presented with a battered, helpless Jemma—well.

The varying behaviors of werewolves are exceedingly well-documented but very hard to predict. They won’t harm anyone they consider _pack_, but it takes an incredibly strong emotional bond for someone to qualify. There are reports of werewolves attacking their own parents, their own spouses, their own _children_, even. Simple friendship and camaraderie are no sure bet.

There’s just no telling whether Ward’s wolf will view Jemma as pack or not—and nothing to do about it either way.

“How much longer?” she asks. She barely manages to get her voice above a whisper.

When Ward turns back to her, his helpless frustration is plain on his face. “Nineteen minutes.”

That’s not a guess. A werewolf’s tie to the full moon means that he always knows _precisely_ how far away its rise is. It’s actually quite fascinating.

“You couldn’t have left me there,” she says, because she knows he’s given to taking far more than his fair share of guilt, and she wants this on the record. “They’d run out of patience with my refusal to cooperate. They were about to kill me—I wouldn’t have lived to see the dawn.”

“You still might not,” Ward says.

“But you _can_ leave me here,” she continues, ignoring him. “Take your nineteen minutes and get as far away from me as you can. Perhaps if you get far enough, your wolf will be distracted by a nice rabbit and forget all about me?”

It’s not very likely, of course, but it’s really the best hope—the _only_ hope—they’ve got.

And Ward must agree, because he doesn’t protest. He only asks, “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” She settles back against the tree he set her at the base of nine heart-wrenching minutes ago, attempting to look confident and resolute and not nearly out of her mind with terror. “I’ll be fine here. Go on.”

He hesitates for a moment longer, and then he’s off, tearing through the dense foliage at an enviable speed.

Leaving Jemma alone and helpless on the ground in the middle of a dark forest.

“I’ll be fine,” she says again, very quietly, and then it starts to rain.

Of bloody course.

+++

By the time Ward makes his way back to her, Jemma is soaked through and shivering and in quite a lot of pain. Every shiver sends a bolt of white-hot agony from her ankle all the way to her hip, but she can’t help it; between the dark, the December chill, and the rain, she’s absolutely freezing.

And petrified. One mustn’t forget her absolute terror.

As such, the appearance of a large, dark wolf in front of her doesn’t even make her scream. She’s so miserable and afraid that all she can do is stare up at him.

“Are you going to eat me?” she asks—rather pitifully, she fears.

The wolf, in answer, huffs—to her distant amusement, it’s remarkably similar to the sound Ward makes when Jemma and/or Fitz wander off to examine an interesting bit of evidence before he’s decided it’s safe—and lays down a good three feet away from her.

Jemma decides, with no little relief, that that’s a _no_.

Thank goodness.

“Good wolf,” she says. A little (_only_ a little; she is still helpless and stranded, with a single not-in-his-right-mind teammate for company) of her fear melts away, and exhaustion rushes in to fill its place.

It has been a very, very long four days.

“Good wolf,” she repeats, closing her eyes, and leans her head back against the tree. “I’m probably going to die of hypothermia, of course, but at least I won’t be eaten.”

At that, the wolf growls, and Jemma’s eyes pop open to find him getting to his feet.

“That wasn’t a _challenge_!” she yelps as he comes closer. “Ward—!”

She’s sure she’ll later be embarrassed by the actual _squeak_ that she interrupts herself with, but in the moment, she’s far too busy being astonished to care. Far from biting, clawing, or otherwise attacking her, Ward has sprawled himself across her lap like—like he’s some form of small dog and not a great bloody _wolf_.

He’s marvelously warm.

“Ohhhh,” she says—or perhaps moans a bit—and curls herself over him. “Oh, that’s lovely. Thank you, Ward.”

It’s hard to describe the noise he makes in return, but she thinks he sounds satisfied. He twists a bit to nose at her hair, then makes the noise again and settles himself in place, by all appearances perfectly content to spend the night being cuddled by a soaked, freezing teammate.

“I love you,” Jemma tells him fervently, and hugs him a bit tighter. “You are my absolute favorite werewolf. When you’re a man again, I’m going to bake you a cake. And then I’ll research what sorts of treats are safe for wolves and make some of those for the next full moon.”

The wolf gives a heavy sigh, like her effusive gratitude is very burdensome, but the night isn’t so dark that she can’t see the way his tail is thumping against the muddy ground.

Even though he doesn’t show it, Ward likes to be appreciated…but then, doesn’t everyone? And he’s done so very much for her this week—first getting captured trying to protect her, then breaking and carrying her out of that awful base, and now, even robbed of his usual senses, sharing his own warmth to protect her from the cold. She owes him far more than a few homemade desserts.

“Thank you, Grant,” she says, and holds him all the more closely.

+++

(Several months later, he’ll betray the team in favor of the madman who turned him into a werewolf in the first place. Skye will say _he never really cared about any of us, not once_, and Jemma will agree, because to argue would be cruel after what Skye’s just been through.

But she’ll remember a night in the woods—remember Ward keeping her safe, _cuddling_ her, against all odds—and she’ll wonder.)


End file.
